A Game of Riddles
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "Will you really call me up when you come back to London, even if its twenty years from now? Yes Sherlock, I will." A young John Watson stumbles across a younger Sherlock Holmes hidden behind some rubbish bins in London. Much liberty taken with timelines, as John is about 19 and Sherlock is 9. Cute, short, and fun. Read and review!


**AN:** This story sprang into my mind as I was watching The Hobbit again a few weekends ago, as such, all of the riddles are directly from the book. No infringement intended! Read, enjoy and review. Thanks!

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John Watson moved through the London night with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched to brace against the winter chill. The wind cut through the streets, snow crunched under his feet. It wasn't much compared to the snow John was used to seeing back home in the country, but it was enough to bring a quiet over the city and make everything look clean and new. John relished in the peace of the moment. He exhaled and watched his breath hang in the air.

A noise startled him from his reverie. The rubbish bins in the alley were shaking. He saw a mop of curly hair and hoped that whatever moved the bins was not a particularly large rat. Against his better judgment he moved closer to the noise. The bins rattled again. He caught sight of a patch of pale skin. Good…. not a rat, then. "Hello….?" He peaked around the bins and gasped at what he saw.

Huddled in the snow behind the bins was a child, small and pale, crouched down with his arms wrapped around his knees. His hair was matted and wet, but his eyes were sharp and seafoam green as he gazed at the man who intruded on his space. "Hello." John said again, crouching down to be at eye level with the child. "I'm John. What's your name?"

The boy stared at him, his lips pressed into a line. "Right…" John said. "You look like you're about six…"

"I'm nine and a half, thank you very much!" The boy snapped before realizing his mistake. He scowled at John. "And you tricked me."

"Good to know you talk, though..." John shifted on his feet. "Bit uncomfortable sitting like this, don't you think?" He brushed a bit of snow off of the ground and situated himself beside one of the bins. He brushed the ground beside him and motioned to the boy. "Sit, it's colder, but more comfortable I think."

For a moment the boy's eyes wavered, torn between trusting this intruder or the burning in his thighs. Discomfort won, and he sat down on the spot John had cleared. "I'm John." He said again when the boy was situated.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

John looked at him. "Of the Manor Holmes?" The boy rolled his eyes. "Why are you out here, then, Sherlock… a boy of nine—" Sherlock's mouth opened to protest, "Nine and half, sorry… a boy of nine and half should be home in bed. Not out in the cold snow behind some rubbish bins."

"I don't have to tell you." Sherlock looked away, ringing his fingers together. There was a pregnant silence.

"Well, I suppose you don't. But we shouldn't just sit out here with nothing to do…" He looked Sherlock in the eye.

"You could just leave." Sherlock spat. John ignored the venom and smiled a gentle smile.

"Would you like to play a game of riddles? We can trade question for question, and if the riddle is answered the asker has to answer a question about himself."

Young eyes lit up and Sherlock smiled. "I'm really quite good at riddles."

"I bet you are. Why don't you go first?"

He had a riddle at the ready. "Alive without breath, as cold as death; Never thirsty, ever drinking, all in mail never clinking. What am I?"

John leaned his blonde head back against the bin, exhaling another cloud that hung for a moment before dissipating. "A fish." Sherlock looked disappointed that John had gotten the answer correct so quickly. "Clever riddle though." The boy smirked. "I know how old you are… why are you out here, Sherlock, hiding behind some bins?"

"I'm hiding because you saw me. I'm out here because…" He twisted his fingers around in the flap of his coat. "I ran away."

"Why did you run away?" At the glare from the boy, he amended, "Right, can't ask another question until I answer another riddle. How about you try this one then… What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, up it goes, and yet it never grows?"

"A mountain, obviously." The response was almost instant. It was also correct. Sherlock was a very bright boy. "I know you're not a native to London, and that you're out to clear your head because you'd been drinking at the pub a few blocks over… You have to be about nineteen, I would guess, the same age as my bro-" His face fell. "Mycroft. The same age as Mycroft. Ten years older than me."

"Is there a question in there, Sherlock?" John was unsure how the boy knew all of those things, but he was correct on every one. He felt a shiver run up his spine but he pushed the fear away.

"Why are you here?"

"Clearing my head, like you said."

"No! Why are you _here_, with me? Why are you even talking to a kid like me?"

John smirked. "Last night in London before going off… I joined the army. Want to be a doctor, and this was a good way to pay for it. Walking around after I left some of my mates at the pub, feeling a bit morose if you want the honest truth and then I see you. I can't just leave you here, cold and curled in the bins, Sherlock." He looked at the boy. "And I'm talking to you because even _you_," He pointed a finger at Sherlock's chest, "are better company then what's running through my head the past hour."

There was silence again. Sherlock didn't respond, but he didn't look away. "All right," John said finally, "Your turn with a riddle."

"It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life, kills laughter." Sherlock's voice was dead serious, and John couldn't help but laughing. "What's so funny?"

"Just you, a bit strange you are…" John laughed again; he stopped when he saw Sherlock's fallen face and sad eyes. "But it's okay, it's the good kind of strange I think. You're very smart."

"Are you going to continue to flatter me, or will you answer my riddle?"

"Darkness. It's darkness."

"Yes."

"Where are your parents, Sherlock?"

His shoulders stiffened, and it wasn't from cold. "On holiday." He sighed. "I was staying with Mycroft and a nanny… they've been gone for a long time." John couldn't tell if the boy was angry or sad, or maybe a mixture of both.

"Don't you think they'll miss you, Mycroft and your nanny?"

"Is that your riddle?"

"No, I don't suppose it is… let's see…" He hummed to himself as he tried to come up with a riddle to stump Sherlock, if that was even possible. "Ah! How about this: This thing all things devours; Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays kings, ruins town, and beats high mountain down."

Almost as quickly as he answered before, Sherlock responded, "Time. Are you frightened of the war, John?" It was the first time the boy had used his name. John smiled a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Very much so, Sherlock."

"I think you're too kind for war, John." It was a simple statement, and Sherlock followed it immediately with another riddle. "Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters."

It was John's turn to answer as quickly as Sherlock had. "Wind. Not fair really, my mum had told me that one when I was little."

"You can still ask your question. You want to ask me why I ran away."

"Yes, but I don't think you want to answer that. I'll ask you this instead: Do you think Mycroft and your nanny will miss you?"

"No." Sherlock bit his lip and despite his intelligence and the way he had been carrying on this conversation in the back of a cold London alley he looked very young. John scooted closer to the boy and noted with some pride that he mirrored the action. Their shoulders were touching now, providing a little warmth in the chill.

"My nanny says I'm a freak. And Mycroft is leaving too. Just like my mum and dad. He has to go to university. I told him it was silly, that they weren't going to teach him anything he didn't already know but he said that there were some things you needed a piece of paper to prove… and apparently that's what he'll get at university." The whole sentence came out as a rush, followed by a very small voice, "I've been gone for a day and no one has come looking; they don't miss me at all."

"Thirty white horses on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still."

"The answer is teeth. Are you going to make me go home?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I am."

Sherlock thought a moment. "If you can answer this, I'll not complain about having to go home." John smirked. "Well, maybe a little, but I'll still go."

"All right," The older boy said, "Fair enough."

"An eye in a blue face saw an eye in a green face. 'That eye is like to this eye' said the first eye, 'But in a low place, not in a high place.'"

John closed his eyes, fitting the words together. It took him a few moments. "I think I stumped you!" He heard Sherlock exclaim.

"Daisies, in a sunny field." John stood up and held out his hand. "Sorry, Sherlock. I think it's time we take you home." Defeated and shivering, Sherlock reached out and took John's offered hand. They started to walk out of the alley. It was dark, and John had to guess it was around midnight. Whoever was waiting for Sherlock, if anyone was waiting at all, was probably worried out of their mind.

On the street John called a taxi and Sherlock gave them the address to the manor. The cabby eyed John and his young companion a bit suspiciously, but began the drive anyway. The silence in the car was almost deafening. Finally John spoke up, "No-legs lay on one-leg, two legs sat near on three legs, four legs got some."

Sherlock smiled. "A fish on a table, a man eats at a stool. He has a dog which got the scraps. I told you I was good at riddles." John chuckled and the cab turned into the long driveway. Sherlock's small hand was still wrapped around his own. "Best you just let me out. I have a key. No need to wake my brother… please." Sherlock produced a key from his pocket with his other hand.

John opened the door and told the cabby to wait for a few moments as he walked Sherlock to the door.

At the door he bent down to Sherlock's eye level. "Well, Sherlock Holmes, it has been very nice to meet you."

"I still have a question, from the riddle I answered in the cab." John smiled and nodded. Sherlock bit his lip again, as if he was nervous about his inquiry. "Will we be friends, John? Can we be friends?"

"Well…" John sighed. "It's complicated Sherlock. See, I'm about to leave London and you're just a boy…" The boy in question tightened his shoulders. He sniffled loudly. "Now, don't be upset, Sherlock. You're a fine young man, and you're very bright."

"But we can't be friends? We can have adventures. Like pirates!"

"Not quite yet, I'm afraid. Maybe in the future, maybe when I get back from school and the war and I come to London I'll look you up and see how you're doing. You'll be an old man then…" He winked and reached out to flatten Sherlock's curly hair. "But I'll look you up, and we can have a drink and share another game. What do you say?"

"I suppose that's fair." Sherlock said quietly, wiping his hand across his face to hide the fact he'd begun to cry.

The light above the door flickered on and both of them jumped. The door opened.

"Sherlock Holmes!" It had to have been Mycroft who stood at the door in a wrinkled dress shirt and pants. "I've been worried half to death. What would Mum and Dad say had they known you'd been…" He only just appeared to notice John. "And you are?"

"John. John Watson. I came across Sherlock in the city and talked him home." He shook Mycroft's hand. "No harm came to him, I promise."

Mycroft smiled a tight smile. "Yes, well, Sherlock is fond of getting in trouble. Mum says sometimes he's gone for days before he wanders back home. Usually sticks to the outskirts of town but he must have felt adventurous today."

"It's not safe, really." John said and Mycroft shot him a look as if to challenge the fact that he knew that.

"I do my best." Mycroft said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "He doesn't usually run away when I'm here."

"You're leaving tomorrow." Sherlock said from the space between the two of them.

"University." Mycroft explained. "He'll be in the care of the nanny until our parents return." John nodded and then looked at the boy between them.

"Why are you crying Sherlock?" He asked softly.

"I don't want Mycroft to leave. And I don't want you to go to the war. John doesn't think I'm a freak…" He looked at Mycroft. "Please can John just stay here, or can you stay, or…" There were tears running down his face in earnest now. "It's just not fair!" He sobbed, reaching out to cling to John's waist. Stunned at first, John placed his hands around Sherlock's shoulders. Mycroft watched the two of them.

"He seems to have taken to you. He usually doesn't like to talk to people. I'm sorry he's like this…"

"I have to admit he's a very different boy then what I'm used to." John joked as Sherlock buried his face in his side. "Don't be sorry. I'm sure he's just scared. I know what it's like to be scared and not want things to change." He smiled at Mycroft. Sherlock's sobs had quieted a bit.

"But the thing is we have to be brave and face those changes, and move forward, you know." Sherlock backed off of John and looked at him with red rimmed eyes.

"John…" He said in a small voice.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You will call me up? Really, when you come back to London, even if its twenty years from now?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I will."

"Then I guess you can go… if you promise." Sherlock sniffled.

"Good to know I have the Sherlock Holmes' seal of approval." John laughed before he looked Sherlock in the eye, very seriously, "I will do my best, Sherlock Holmes, to meet you again in the future. And we can have plenty of adventures then, yes?"

Sherlock nodded and scooted towards his brother. In the drive, the taxi honked loudly. John had almost forgotten it was there.

"Make me a promise of your own, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Stay out of trouble… and no more running away."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and then at John. He sniffled again. "Okay." He reached out for Mycroft's shirt sleeve and then tucked himself under his brother's arm. "My… I'm tired." He said after a moment. John laughed and Mycroft chuckled quietly.

"I best get him to bed. Thank you for bringing him home, Mr. Watson. If there's ever anything…" He started to reach in his pocket for his wallet but John waved his hand away.

"It's all fine. I couldn't have left him alone in the cold like that. Good night, Sherlock. Nice to meet you, Mycroft."

Sherlock mumbled his goodbye and Mycroft turned to lead him inside as John returned the taxi. Just as he was about to shut the door, a small voice echoed off the pavement as Sherlock ran towards the car.

"You don't have my number! How will you call me up if you don't have my number!?"

Looking back up at the silhouette of Mycroft in the light of the door, and the small face of Sherlock Holmes before him John smiled. "I'm sure I'll stumble across you again… plus, how many Sherlock Holmes can there be in London?"

The boy beamed up at him. "I'm the only one in the world."


End file.
